Star-Crossed Lovers
by ICountCrows
Summary: Very dark fic. Harry's last battle with Voldemort. Pain, memories, and a rekindled love as his last salvation. H/D SLASH implied, no lemons or even limes.


**Title:** Star-Crossed Lovers  
**Author:** ICountCrows  
**Disclaimer:** All the characters belong to JKR, the plot belongs to me and my muses, Doloris and Arden, and to anyone who can't figure out which parts belong to Bill Shakespeare: I don't know who's allowing you to surf the internet, but you had better tell that person it isn't safe.  
**Summary: **Very dark fic. Harry's last battle with Voldemort. Pain, memories, and a rekindled love as his last salvation.  
**Warnings:** Violence, Dark Themes, **Harry Death Warning**, Harry/Draco **SLASH** implied, but no lemons or even limes 

~*~*~* 

The man of the hour was blindfolded and tied to a chair near the fireplace. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth where his cracked lips were giving way to the course, thick ropes they had bound and gagged him with, and the knots at his wrists were cutting welts into his skin. Dark, unruly hair was matted to his head with sweat, and a few pieces hung in rebellious wisps over the blindfold and tickled his forehead. He wanted desperately to flick them away, but no toss of his head would do the trick, and, obviously, every appendage he might otherwise have used was indisposed. 

He sighed at the empty room and stretched his neck away from the blazing heat of the fire. They had caught him on the way back from a charity function and he was sweating bullets under his full winter dress robes. 

A door creaked open and three pairs of heavy footsteps made their way into the room. The dim lights brightened and The Captive straightened. He knew he must be proud. They were going to kill him, but he would die proud. 

One of the men who entered shut the door and locked it. That was the only sound for a long time, but the blindfolded man was learning to trust his other senses, and his intuition told him he was no longer alone. 

Finally someone spoke. The Voice was one that the young man knew all too well, and it sent chills down his spine. He had encountered that voice when it was young, old, dying, strong...so many times, and yet he never got used to it. Every time he heard it, he felt as through its icy quality was attaching itself to his heart. 

"Can we get you anything, Mr. Potter?" 

The Captive breathed deeply as he felt his painful gag dissolve. "Oh, no, thank you, Tom. I'm quite comfortable," he sneered, tasting blood on his freshly wet lips. 

The use of the name "Tom" appeared to surprise all three of the men by the door. Two looked positively mortified, but the speaker only twisted his thin lips into a sort of amused smile and advanced further into the room. 

"Well, I'm thrilled to hear it." The icy chill ran down the young man's spine again. The Voice oozed hate and evil, even when it was speaking of something anyone ignorant of its identity would call normal. "We've brought you a gift." 

The man in the chair did not move. He did not bat an eyelash, raise his head, nor attempt to draw further information from the speaker. 

"You're going to die, you know," The Voice continued calmly. "You've humiliated us too many times - humiliated _me_. They all thought you could beat me - they all thought The Boy Who Lived could live again. And again. And again." 

It seemed to the young man that The Voice was pacing, now. Back and forth, in front of his chair, around it, coming from the fire, gathering fuel, speed, and anger. The Voice alone could kill him - The Voice alone could drive him crazy inside his own memories. 

"For a long time, I considered letting you live," it confessed. "Only if I could bring you to join me, of course, but I considered it." There was a sigh of carefully scripted false ambivalence, but, nevertheless, The Voice continued. "But I gave you all your chances, Potter, and besides, I have a reputation to uphold. I have to make an example of you. They all have to know I have the power to kill _even you_. Once you're dead, Potter, the world is mine." 

The Captive found a laugh somewhere within the folds of dread in his heart. "It won't matter if you kill me. You'll only enrage them all more. The are plenty of wizards out there more powerful than you could ever be." He knew he'd hit a soft spot and waited pensively for a violent response. _ It wouldn't matter, anyway_, he thought. _I'll die regardless of whether or not I make him angry_. 

"Like who?" The Voice hissed. "Dumbledore? That's what you always used to say, wasn't it? Well, who proved stronger in _that_ match? Your precious headmaster was so weak after I'd finished with him he couldn't even stand. I had to kill him lying on the floor." The Voice even laughed with ice. "Who's going to keep the world from me after I've killed the only one who ever could?" 

The silence rang in The Captive's ears and he wondered the same thing. Ever since he'd graduated - ever since Hogwarts had closed - the Dark Lord had been gaining followers, gaining power. When Dumbledore died, their movement had died with him. They had slowly begun losing. They were losing battles, losing followers, losing lives, and The Captive had known it wouldn't be long before they killed him as well. 

"But, really, Potter," - The Voice cut his thoughts short - "is this what you want to spend your last moments thinking about? I _did_ say I'd brought you a gift. Have you forgotten?" 

The Captive gritted his teeth despite his desire to show no emotions. "And _I_ told _you _I was perfectly comfortable. Have _you_ forgotten?" 

The icy laugh cut through the air again and The Captive wondered why it didn't chill the heat from the fire. "Oh, no, I haven't forgotten, but you've always been such a well-mannered boy I thought you'd know it was rude not to accept gifts offered to you." 

The Captive cringed again at the irony of being labeled "rude" by the Dark Lord. "I'll take no gifts from you." 

"Harry, please-" 

The whimper came from one of the other men in the room and The Captive's head shot up in spite of himself. _No_, he thought. _No, they can't know. They can't have him_. 

The Voice croaked out another laugh. "Yes, Potter. We know all about your little lover boy," it taunted. "Wouldn't you like to see him one last time before you die?" 

The Captive's stomach returned and he remembered...He remembered everything he'd thought he'd pushed away two years earlier when he'd left Hogwarts for the last time. The salty taste of flesh, the glint of silver moonlight in sad grey eyes, the pliant tongue, the silky strands of gold he ran his fingers through on so many sweaty, passion-filled nights...It all came rushing back to him with that whimper. Rapturous moans of pleasure and secrets whispered softly into his ears long ago echoed in his head and he tried not to shudder at the enormity of it all. 

He did want to see his lover again. He wanted it more than he'd ever wanted anything - wanted it more than he wanted to live. The sweet cream color of his lover's skin could subdue his pains, dissolve his regrets, and comfort him even in death. But it would be a breaking point. It would mean giving his last ounce of power - all his pride - to the Dark Lord, and he would lose his final battle. He would not succumb. 

"Go to him," The Voice ordered, and The Captive knew he was too late to deny his desire. Almost instantly, he felt hands on him, at the back of his head, fingers running through his hair and untying the blindfold. He was to see his dragon... 

The cloth was peeled away from his skin and he squinted through the bright lights to the porcelain beauty above him. "Draco," he breathed. It was a statement in itself, needing no more expression. 

"Harry, I'm so sorry." Delicate fingers brushed the hair from his eyes and the sweat from his brow, then moved on to trace his drawn features. 

Harry closed his eyes and allowed Draco's cool touch to soothe his scalding hot skin. A thumb ran over his dry lips, and whispers - true whispers, not ghosts of whispers past - made their way to his ears, calming him. 

"I'm so sorry, Harry. I'm so sorry," Draco was croaking. There were tears in his dragon's eyes, those sad, grey eyes, and Harry didn't want to look...But he couldn't tear his gaze away... 

_Eyes, look your last..._

"_Crucio_!" 

The pain shot through him unexpectedly. The curse was seeking out every cell in his body, shaking his insides, setting him on fire. He was vaguely aware of Draco's grip on his shoulders, but his own screams drowned all his dragon's comforting whispers. 

Cruciatus had him for less than a minute, but Harry felt as though he had been tortured for an eternity. He continued to shake after the curse had subsided and refused to open his eyes. He concentrated only on his dragon's voice, the meaningless words being whispered for his comfort, the memories, flashes of skin and hair and ecstasy, the touch, the nuzzle of Draco under his neck... 

_Arms, take your last embrace..._

The curse came again and his Harry's blood turned to icicles, pricking at and slicing through his veins, his heart, his skin. Draco rocked him, but the body heat could not melt the ice, and his screams shot through the air, short like daggers and long like swords. 

It was over again and Draco was still there - still murmuring insignificant nothings in his ear. Soft lips brushed his cheek, his jaw, his mouth... 

_Lips, o you, the doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss..._

"_Crucio_!" 

His skin must have been burning off. His fingernails were growing backwards. There were paper cuts on his tongue. "_PLEASE_!" There was only one long, pained scream this time, but he made it count. _The pain was unbearable...The heat was stifling...He couldn't breathe...His dragon was slipping away..._

"_Avada Kedavra_!" 

A flash of green light burst from Draco's wand and the pain was over for his lover. He turned away in shock and disbelief, unable to look at the body bound to the chair - unable to watch it twitch in post-mortem agony - unable to know that he had stolen the most precious thing he had ever possessed...from himself. 

The reflection in his dull grey eyes was that of Lucius Malfoy, his wand drawn threateningly against his own son, pointed with vigor and readiness to hex or maybe even worse. Draco stared dazedly and waited - for something - anything. 

"Well done, boy," the Dark Lord's voice said calmly. "Your father didn't think you could do it, but I knew you belonged with me - with _us_." 

Lucius lowered his wand at his master's words...and smiled. 

_Smiled._

Draco did not take his eyes off his father. The vision was blurred through tears and he was squinting to keep the bile down his throat, but he glared with conviction and dedication - loyalty to the only person who ever cared about him. He threw all of his disgust and hate into that glare, and directed every ounce of impurity he had at his father - the man who would cause him so much pain - the man who would force him to watch his love tortured - the man who would send him into the arms of the Dark Lord. 

_O happy dagger..._

He stared, and slowly turned his wand to point it at himself. Lucius' eyes widened with fear, but he was too late. 

"_Mihi_," Draco commanded faintly, and in a flash of silver magic, he crumpled to the floor at his lover's feet. 

~*~*~* 

Well, what do you think? I realize that Harry didn't exactly kill himself for Draco's love, but that's why I didn't call it "Romeo and Juliet". Plus, their names could have posed problems, but let's not talk about that. Anyways, that was probably the darkest fic I've ever written, and I don't really know if it's any good or not, so please review. Constructive criticism welcome, flamers: take a hike. 


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